


To Make a Heav'n of Hell

by Ripuku



Category: Dishonored
Genre: Gen, Masochism, Torture, Violent, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripuku/pseuds/Ripuku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coldridge isn't such a challenge. Masochism-fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Make a Heav'n of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme. 
> 
> THIS IS BLOODY. THIS IS GRAPHIC. THIS IS VIOLENT, SICK, AND TWISTED. IF THIS IS NOT YOUR CUP OF TEA, I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE NOW.

Sweat rolls down his skin as his chest heaves with the labour of breathing. Vision spins while his body sways hypnotically against the chains. Dry lips part desperate for a touch of water to soothe the cracks and to wash away the taste of iron. Muscles strain, limbs waver, fail to support, only thing holding him up are the chains now, cuffs digging into his wrists with a sweetly edged pain. Shoulders ache, wrists burn, neck strains, back arches with each strike of the whip. Fire flares across his back, the heat pooling in his belly. Each lash mark smoulders with a heat that will go on for days without end, glowing hot like an ember in a breeze every time he moves. To serve as a reminder, or so the men keeping him here like to think.

But he loves it. Welcomes the pain they think keep him in line, uses it to his own ends. Chains on his limbs make him quake in anticipation, a whip across his back draws his back into a taut arch of delight, hot brands light desire in him that burns as long as the marks do. The torturer is never observant enough to see how Corvo shudders in delight, or notice the erection straining at the thin, threadbare pants that are standard issue to prisoners.

Screams of pleasure must be twisted into howls of agony. Cries of ‘yes please, more’ must instead be ‘stop, please, no more.’ But that works alright, because they almost never stop when he begs. Tears are good, they like seeing those, even if they think they’re for pain and not the pleasure. Curl around their boots when they kick, grab at their ankles, and they’ll kick harder next time. He likes to press on the mottling bruises when he’s alone in his cell, feel the shocks running straight to his groin as he groans into his pillow.

He nearly loses when they take his fingernails. His screams echo around the dim chamber, he writhes against the hold they have him in, and it is fortunate that they are focused enough on keeping him in place, disillusioned in their power over him, for if they were not, they might notice the way he enjoys it. This particular torture brings real pain, lapping over the shores of pleasure on which he rests, threatening to drag him under. But when the thumbnail of his left hand parts from his flesh, he comes with a ragged shout and a shudder that makes the torturers smirk at each other. If either notices the wet spot on his trousers, they simply believe he’s wet himself. Corvo’s okay with letting them believe that.

He does lose when Burrows comes to supervise. With Burrows there only to watch them try to break him, it’s impossible to hide what’s really going on. He makes it through the hot pokers, but when they put him in chains and get the whips, he can’t hide it any longer. It gets harder to pretend, knowing Burrows is there to watch, and that makes him enjoy it even more. With every snap of the whip across his shoulders, with every line of fire drawn over his skin, his cries become more obscene, and Burrow’s face melts from a smug grin, to confusion, to outright disgust. When the torturer lands a good hit across his lower back, Corvo can’t help but let out a whining moan that sends red blooming up Burrow’s neck and tints his ears.

“Enough!” The man shouts at the torturer, and sends the man out of the room. Corvo is left swaying against the chains, his ragged breaths a harsh staccato in the otherwise silent room. Burrow’s boots tap out a steady beat on the floor that doesn’t mesh up with Corvo’s uneven breathing as he walks over. His sneer twists his face the way his hands twist the leather whip he carries. He stops in front of Corvo, who must crane his neck to look him in the face from where he kneels on the floor. Burrows lifts one foot from the floor and presses his boot into Corvo’s groin, taking great care to grin his heel into the tender area.

“You’re enjoying this.” he seems confused again as Corvo groans. “You’re… How are you enjoying this?!”

He strikes Corvo hard across the face, the dull thud of fist against jaw resounding in the chamber. Corvo twists his head up and around to give him a smile that is all blood and teeth.

He doesn’t give Burrows an answer.

 

~*~*~

Joining the Loyalists wasn’t a difficult decision. Pain he could withstand, but no amount of masochism would survive him an execution.

It took the Loyalists each their own amount of time to realize how he enjoyed the pain. It was Martin first, who watched him flexing his still nail-less fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists over and over and over with a serene smile on his face.

Havelock, who saw him drive his fingers into a still bleeding wound and moan.

And finally Pendleton, who found him deliberately leaning against a sharp corner of the hallway, digging the edge into still tender whiplashes and shuddering in the delight it caused him.

What they said to each other behind closed doors didn’t matter, really. It never had.


End file.
